Musings of a Funeral Director
by Mrs Dionysius O'Gall
Summary: This man was definitely one for the funeral director cocktail party circuit. Fill in scene for Episode 2.17, 'Dead Uncles and Vegetables.' Missing scene, before the burial.


I'm used to pain, grief and sadness. It's part of the job, a family ritual, in fact. We've owned this funeral home for several generations. I like to think that I'm in the people business, helping the living.

The door chime tolls, and I silently look up from my desk, immediately plastering my patented "bereavement counselor" look on my face. The novel I've been reading is silently slipped into my desk drawer.

A man and a woman. Hmm. Could be husband and wife, maybe? No...maybe not, but he's solicitous towards her. I look for wedding rings, you never know these days.

No rings in sight. Yet, I can see by the way they're standing, that she's supporting him. The man looks stunned, but not red-eyed. Kind of annoyed. Usually they've been crying, crying, crying.

I know why they're here. They're here to reenact an ages-old scene. A sad but familiar scene to those of us who serve the public as funeral directors. Someone dies, and the surviving, distraught family members and friends are forced to choose a burial plot and casket; plan the funeral services. If only...if only they'd pre-plan. I tell you, pre-planning's the answer. Would spare everyone a lot of grief, so to speak. Alleviate one of the most stressful, emotionally draining times in their lives.

They confer in whispers. They seem comfortable together, like they've done this before. It's then that I recognize the man from earlier today. He's the one who was waiting impatiently near the casket in Viewing Salon #2. He looks different--wait, he was wearing a baseball cap, on all weird, backwards, come to think of it, earlier today. He was also acting strange.

Oh well, the event affects everyone in different ways.

Take the choosing of a casket, for example. This man was definitely one for the funeral director cocktail party circuit. He came in, all blustery, to look at our very fine selection in our showroom.

"Yes, this is the showroom," I told him.

I swear the guy ranted back at me! "Showroom? That's for cars, not for coffins…"

"Sir," I reply, "this is a showroom not of vehicles for speed and transport, but of containers for the empty vessel your loved one has become."

He shoots a look at me that…well never mind. I sense my cue. No hurrying here to make the sale.

Later, one of my colleagues dealt with him, and had to send him off to get a Big and Tall casket, because the revered deceased apparently was taking more than the usual number of artifacts with him into the next life.

So I see that he's obviously picked something out, and the revered deceased and his artifacts have been placed inside. I go over to him and the lady.

"Good afternoon," I say, extending my hand to the man.

I watch his face. Weighing the options and deciding what the right greeting in response to me should be. This place, this situation always makes them uncomfortable, and with the unfortunate incident in the showroom earlier…

"Umm...we're just waiting here for the viewing," the woman says.

The man flinches.

"Please, come and sit," I answer, gesturing in the direction of a little lounge area I've set up. Here's where I go into my spiel. "Did you have something particular in mind for the viewing?"

"It's for a guy," the man monotonically says, his eyes looking straight ahead. "With stuff," he adds.

I look at the woman. "How old?" I inquire.

"Old," he replies.

"He was, um, eighty-five," the woman adds.

"Ah, a full life."

"If you can call it that," he continues.

Oh God. A sarcastic one. Sometimes, people think the hardest part of this job is dealing with the little angels that pass on. Why just earlier today, we had a little three-year-old angel come through. A little girl who'll never learn to read, or ride a bike. But, I've got to get a grip on myself. It's actually harder on me to deal with these sarcastic cynical types.

"May I ask what kind of service is being planned?" I segue into an area I feel comfortable with.

The man's face gets an even more sarcastic look on it. I half expect him to say, 'a funeral, you dolt', but I quickly jump in..."I mean, religious?"

"Generic," the woman whispers, patting my hand. "Uh, the Reverend Hackett..."

"Ah yes. We don't do a lot of business with him, usually we see a lot more of Reverend Skinner..."

The man is looking everywhere but at me.

"Which cemetery will your…"

"Uncle," the woman supplies.

"Be spending his time at?" I ask the man.

He looks startled.

The woman hands me a notepad with the details. "I think we'll just need a simple viewing," she whispers, "He was flown here from Florida and I'm not sure who'll be coming."

The man meantime has moved to the back, and is flipping through the casket and services brochures in the foyer, looking pained and distant.

"Great," I say. "Let me check on the plot." I quickly call the cemetery and verify the arrangements, made by a "Luke Danes."

There's only one more thing for them to do now. Complete the visitation.

I return and clear my throat. "Ahem, death certificate," I intone.

The man fidgets and produces the paper. "Danes, Louie." I furtively look for cause of death. I'm always curious. One time, I actually got a guy who died from autoerotic asphyxiation. I mean, they actually put it on this guy's death certificate! I quickly chastise myself and focus again on the deceased, Louie. Ah, standard stuff, passed away of natural causes.

Now I get to the more social aspect, plus I'm in business, and have to take care of that.

"There are some...options you may want to consider," I say. "Limousine, flowers, motorcycle escort, register books for the funeral guests to sign, cards, memorial folders, certified copies of death for legal purposes, obituaries--these are all options..."

"That cost extra," the man snarls back at me.

I decide I'm done with him. The woman is much more reasonable. I turn and smile at her.

"Simple," the woman says, "keep it simple." I notice that she's looking up at the wall behind me.

I know what's there. Lovely quote, lovingly cross-stitched by my mom many years ago. God's words to Adam in the Garden of Eden, Genesis 3:19: "By the sweat of your brow shall you get bread to eat, until you return to the ground--for from it you were taken. For dust you are, and to dust you shall return."

"Flowers might be nice," she whispers conspiratorially, leaning forward towards me.

She smells nice. Not funeral home nice, but womanly nice.

I nod, and tell her I will arrange for something simple.

-----

Sometimes, but not often, something like this happens. A visitation is scheduled and no one shows. I like to at least give persons the illusion of community, and send a few ringers in, but I can sense that the man is not going to buy it. So I wait a little while longer--it's been a slow day here, after all, before I go in and suggest to the woman that we wrap things up.

She smiles indulgently at the man, pats him on the shoulder and we adjourn to my office.

I hand the man the paperwork, and he indicates how arrangements will be handled. The financial stuff. They finish, and are ready to go.

Funerals are funny things. We all need one, eventually. A funeral's a ritual common to all societies. A ritual whose purpose is really to help those left behind to heal.

It's a public service that I provide. A service to help them acknowledge that someone has died; to support their mourning. It's an important ritual: honor, remember and affirm the life of the person who died; search for the meaning.

I realize I've been saying all this aloud, to the woman. She's smiling and nodding at me, a lovely smile really. It's amazing that her friend is so surly around someone like her. Well, maybe he was close to his uncle--that can affect a person.

The man mumbles something. All I catch are the words "mean", "cranky", and "loner."

I wonder whom he's referring to. Himself, or the revered deceased.

I say my good-byes to them, with instructions on how to page me. I want to make sure all goes smoothly at the cemetery. I want to make sure I can sell more extras, should the lady decide to add them.

A cell phone rings. It's the woman's. "Hey Rory..." her voice softly says, as she walks out the door, "We're on our way back to the diner..." 


End file.
